


We're Gonna Help Each Other

by dabblingwithwords



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: (it's deadpool c'mon it's not gonna be PC), Awkward situations, Blood and Violence, Language, M/M, NO MISCOMMUNICATION HERE, PTSD, Peter is 24, Sexual Tension, Vampires, mcu - Freeform, they're idiots btw, this is because it's october and spiderman and deadpool deserve some good halloween fics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-05
Updated: 2017-10-10
Packaged: 2019-01-09 09:44:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12273864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dabblingwithwords/pseuds/dabblingwithwords
Summary: Peter didn't believe in ghosts or goblins or werewolves or anything like that but he was 89.9% sure that there was a vampire in New York City.





	1. holy shit what the fuck

**Author's Note:**

> hey guys! so this follows traditional vampire folk-lore. in case you're not aware this is it: 
> 
> -sun is death  
> -can only be killed by a wooden stake or if their heads are cut off and body and head burnt separately (that's a thing, vampires are wild folks)  
> -crucifix's are a good deterrent but aren't effective if you don't have faith  
> -in order to become a vampire you have to be drained of almost all blood and then be made to suck the vampire's blood whose -turning you  
> -can't enter a threshold unless they're invited in  
> -can hypnotize if you make eye-contact for too long  
> -newborn vampires are blood-crazed and often reckless 
> 
> all right! read on!!

Peter didn't believe in ghosts or goblins or werewolves or anything like that but he was 89.9% sure that there was a vampire in New York City. 

The body in front of him was pale, emaciated, slouched over like all the bones had been sucked from them alongside their blood. At first, it wasn’t that unusual. Peter thought maybe a new killer had gotten wind of draining someone’s blood, sell it on the black market, make a little money, but there were no puncture wounds except two small holes on the side of the man’s jugular. 

It was also three days from Halloween so of course the first thing Peter thought of was a vampire. He’ll blame it on the crappy decorations and watching Fright Night on repeat when his insomnia got bad. 

It was 3am, he hadn’t eaten since yesterday morning–it was half an onion bagel that someone had thrown away (it was still in the packaging calm down)– and he hadn’t slept in longer.

Maybe it was time to go to bed. 

Maybe it was time to find an actual job and life outside of Spiderman. 

Because he’d really love to be able to have a good, steady, income and a hot bowl of pasta or chicken right about now– 

Peter bent down, took the man by his chin and gently raised his head. What someone would want with five liters of blood was beyond him. He sighed, ignoring the way his stomach churned as he dug in the man’s pockets, feeling for a license of some form of identification. Since his blood was gone Peter couldn’t take any samples to figure it out from that. Apparently this new killer was smarter than Peter had originally given him credit for: there was nothing in the man’s pockets. He picked the body up gently, trying not to hurt it further, when it began to jerk, spasm like it had been electrocuted in his arms. 

“ _Whoa_ –!” but the man’s eyes had opened, wide and frenzied and not human. Peter’s spider-sense was blaring behind his temples and he dropped the previously dead man and leapt back, only to see the body stand tall, like it hadn’t been limp as a rag not _five minutes ago_ – 

“Are you–dude, are you okay?” Peter asked, his voice frill as the man in the alley below him only stared. Then his mouth stretched open, white teeth gleaming and sharp, too sharp to be anything human–

Peter webbed his mouth shut. 

In his panic, that was the first thing he could think to do because the fangs were creeping him out and this was just a little too supernatural and a little no logic for him to be comfortable. How was he going to justify this situation to himself in bed later? The man faltered, reaching up a pale hand and in one fell swoop ripped the webs from his mouth. 

“Um,” Peter said. “Tearing it off like that’s really bad for your skin.” The man looked at him, eyes void but alive, body almost luminescent in the moonlight. He was watching Peter with a look akin to hunger, the kind of look Peter gave his ramen at the end of a long week, and Peter took a hesitant step back, holding up his hands. 

“Look, man, I’m just trying to help–”

“You smell,” the man interrupted, making a show of tilting back his head and sniffing the air, “fucking amazing.” 

Peter swallowed. 

And tried not to think how that was the nicest compliment he’d gotten all week.

(Well, Deadpool did talk about his ass three months ago. But that was cruder than compliment and more embarrassing than touching, and long before they– _nope_. Not going there tonight). 

Not that a vampire (can’t be a vampire, that has to be a reasonable explanation, but _holy shit_ how cool would it be to fight a vampire) saying he smelled good was a compliment. 

“What happened? Can you tell me who did this to you?” Peter tried again. He really didn’t want to fight; more so because from the folklore he read (Fright Night) vampires are freakishly strong and can only be deterred by faith (he didn’t have that), a crucifix (nope), holy water (where the fuck), or a wooden stake (webs). 

It wasn’t looking good. 

Plus, vampires can only die through impalement on sharpened wood or the sun so Peter was basically fighting a literal bloodthirsty Deadpool. He tried not to groan out loud. He mentally began to prepare himself to get hurt. 

The man looked hungrier now, nostrils flaring, red creeping into the corners of his eyes, and there was a long line of tension wired through his frame that Peter knew meant an attack. Meant that Peter had one more chance to reason with this newborn vampire before the rational, human part of the guy was taken over. 

“Look, I can help–” and then his spider-sense was _screaming_ , blaring so loud in his temples his vision spun, or maybe that was because the vampire had its hand iron around Peter’s throat and had flung him up against the brick wall of the alley. In all his years with his powers Peter hadn’t met someone faster than him, and by this creature’s grip as strong, or–and this thought had panic racing through him–stronger. Vaguely, Peter was aware of an ache in the back of his head from where his skull collided with brick, but he was more focused on the very real fact that there was a vampire with its mouth open, fangs out, half an inch from his suited neck. 

Peter kicked out, not bothering to hold back his strength with the swing, and it did get the vampire off of him. Peter ducked, hopped above out of the undead creature’s reach, and tried to calm the frantic pounding of his heart. 

The vampire was staring up at him, eyes red, drool pooling out of his mouth, dripping from his fangs. He looked starved. 

“You gonna run?” he asked, voice a low gravel that was as smooth as it was seductive. 

It hit Peter, in that instance that he was dealing with something not of his world. Something that was decidedly not human. He needed to leave. He needed to research, re-evaluate, because this thing, when it came down to it, could out-fight him. Peter could get tired. He could bleed. He was alive and could become weak, but this thing in front of him? It could only get more bloodthirsty. 

Peter almost left. He almost unstuck himself and webbed away as fast as he could but–

– _But_ …he wasn’t the only human outside at this time of night in New York City. If he left, the vampire could take down anyone. He could at least keep the thing entertained until sunrise. 

Four hours of intense hide and seek. 

Peter rolled his shoulders. 

He’d survived worse. 

 

___________________________________________________

 

 

It was five thirty two and Peter could barely breathe. 

He hadn’t predicted a long-winded game of tag, with intervals of fights and trying to subdue an already dead creature from attacking those few wandering civilians, and every muscle in his body was on fire. Peter hadn’t fought someone before whose stamina matched his, not counting Deadpool, because when he and the merc used to fight it was short and brutal, not long and drawn out. Peter had initiated this whole thing believing he'd have the upper hand, that he’d be in control, but at around four he realized that _he_ was the one being chased, that _he_ was the one being hunted. 

He didn’t like the feeling. 

Thirty more minutes, he kept repeating to himself, thirty more minutes and this thing would be fried. He swung down onto the roof of the nearest apartment complex, knees rubber and giving out so he landed in a sprawl on his back. Fuck, his mask was making it harder to breathe, his web fluid was running low, and he would kill for cold water. He needed backup. At times like this Peter understood why so many supers had sidekicks. 

His spider-sense alerted him right as the vampire landed on the roof and Peter had enough time to grab its wrist before it could grab him. Throughout the night the vampire had become more demented in appearance without blood to sustain it, and as Peter rolled up to his feet and took it in its eyes were entirely red, teeth long and sharp, body hunched and sickly, veins protruding. It looked like something that had been left to die. 

It had. 

_He_ had. 

Peter felt a twinge of remorse, of sorrow for the man that had been lost in this thing’s body, but there was no reasoning with it now. 

He shot a web, tried to get the creature's feet down, but it was like an animal now, tearing through the webbing frantically, ripping it away from its skin, no conscience of the pain a normal human would have felt. It got Peter’s arm, grip strong enough that Peter heard a crack in his wrist, a sharp pain, the shattering of his left web shooter. He gritted his teeth, biting back a groan of pain. He wasn’t about to let a vampire know it had the upper hand. 

Peter pulled back and clocked the thing in the jaw, using the momentum to fling his legs around the vampire’s torso, getting its head in a tight lock with his right arm and flipping them both backwards.

The vampire’s head cracked against the roof and Peter untangled himself quick enough to start webbing the thing down, from its neck to its ankles, as much as he could and ignoring the trembling pain in his left wrist. 

It thrashed wildly; eyes bulging from its skull and Peter made a mental note to look up what the mindset of a newborn vampire was like; it was 2017, he’d find something. The thing froze, suddenly stock still, and Peter was about to ask what was up when he saw the first golden light of the sun kiss the tops of the buildings before him. The vampire began to move with more vigor, shredding at the webs, and Peter tried to not think about the consequences to what he was doing by applying more web, by holding the thing down, by _killing_ – 

Gold landed gently, delicately, against the vampire’s blue skin and for a moment it was peaceful. Until the skin began to curl upwards and char, burn black under the sun and Peter stumbled back, body weak, as the vampire began to scream. Peter couldn’t help it: he watched. It was almost beautiful, how fast the thing burned, and like it was made from ash itself, it crumbled. For a brief moment, as the sun hit the last bit of its face, Peter thought he saw the human staring back at him. Then there was silence, and a pile of ash and webs in the place where a body used to be. 

Peter took a few steps back before he collapsed, wrist hurting, heart pounding. All he could see was ash and a clock tower and a web that landed wrong. All he could see was blonde hair and death caused by his hand. He could feel a panic attack bubbling in his chest, could feel his throat close, could feel how breathing became hard.

He wasn’t used to killing. 

He didn’t like killing. 

Peter flexed his legs, almost falling to his back with how tired his body was. 

Fuck, he was exhausted. 

He couldn’t web halfway across Manhattan with a broken wrist either. He could try calling Mr. Stark, but he didn’t want the man to worry, and he wasn’t even certain the guy was in the country at the moment. During their last conversation the billionaire had made it very clear that Peter wasn’t to get involved in anything that was “Avengers level”, and even though Peter was twenty-four and had _fought a war with them at the age of sixteen_ , it seemed like Mr. Stark was dead set on keeping Peter out of danger. And having the suit taken away and to be put in time out ‘cause he decided to take on a vampire was a little (a lot) humiliating. 

There was only one person Peter could think to call, and he really _really_ didn’t want to, but if anyone would drop anything for Peter it was them. Carefully, with his chin, he pressed the small button on the side of his remaining web shooter. Static was quiet in his ears now, his phone line connected. He tried to take a breath to steady himself to speak, but the ash was close, and the clock tower closer. 

He hung his head between his knees, desperately wanting to take off his mask to get fresh air but knowing the risk wasn’t worth it. He tried to focus on counting, on the small cracks under his feet, on the dull pain in his wrist. 

It helped, a little. 

When he felt like he could talk without wheezing he said the first thing that came to mind: 

“Call Wade.”


	2. please stop talking so loud

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wade arrives.

The sun was warm against his suit, warming his skin, and Peter held his wrist to his side as he waited for the call to go through. 

He didn’t need to wait for long. 

“Webs! Wow, haven’t heard from you in a while… I _think_ – I’ve been off planet, ya know, no killing babes, just for you– but I did end up fighting in a zombie apocalypse and I think I did pretty well considering I’m able to take this call right now, unless I’m hallucinating because just between you and me I _do_ dream about you a lot. Not a lot a _lot_ , because that’d be weird right? Would it? I do, I’m lying, and they're always dirty–”

“Deadpool, I need your help,” Peter interrupted, already getting the beginnings of a headache and knowing that if the boxes were being loud today asking for help would get Wade to focus. He didn’t know how to feel when he was right. 

“Where are you?” Deadpool asked, no preamble. The humor was gone from his tone, and Peter heard the familiar sound of a window being pulled open, the noise of the city in the early morning–

“I…shit, I don’t know,” Peter groaned, rolling over onto his legs and standing despite the horrible shake that was running like electricity through his bones. 

“Got in a fight without me, baby boy?” 

“You’ve been gone for three months, Wade,” Peter said through gritted teeth, making his way over to the edge of the roof and scanning for a street sign. 

“Has it been that long? Off planet travel really fucks with a guy.” Wade was running, Peter could tell, and he tried not to feel too relieved by choosing to call Wade for help. If Peter had asked for help and Wade was across the world he’d _still_ be by Peter’s side faster than Iron Man and that thought, that Wade would drop anything for Peter, no questions asked, even after Peter had been a total dick, was overwhelming. 

“14th and 2nd,” Peter read, dropping immediately to the gravel of the rooftop. Now that he knew there was no more danger, that he’d have help home, the adrenaline began to wane and exhaustion crept to take its place. Wade whistled loud in his ear. 

“Who knew you were such a posh little hipster? Who you fighting in the East Village, Webs? Guy-bros with buns ‘cause they can’t go five minutes without telling you they’re vegan? That’s it, isn’t it? Did you get jumped by a gang of vegans?” Peter huffed a laugh and became aware that his ribs were bruised; his neck hurt and– _fuck_ –was his shoulder dislocated? 

That’d explain why everything hurt. 

“You gotta pop my shoulder when you get here,” Peter slurred, eyelids heavy. “Dislocated.” 

Wade was silent for a long, tense moment, and when he spoke next his voice was deeper than Peter had ever heard it. 

“What building you nesting on, tiger?” He said it so soft, that Peter almost didn’t hate the nickname on Wade’s tongue. It hurt now, when MJ said it. Wade soothed the burn, just a little. 

“Dammit, don’t make me get up again,” Peter pleaded, already struggling to his feet. 

“No need, baby boy, I got ya.” 

Except this wasn’t said over the phone and Peter turned to look at the ledge behind him. Deadpool was standing, blocking out the rising sun, the red leather of his suit dirty and torn but hell, he was a sight for sore eyes that just got out-raced by a vampire. 

Peter wasn’t prepared for this part. 

The part that had the two of them meeting and interacting and being near each other again. 

The part that had his heart jackhammering in his chest and his palms growing sweaty and his anxiety getting all tangled up in his guilt and remorse and _want_ – 

“Where’s the Nick Offerman that hurt you?” Deadpool asked, sliding one of his katanas from its sheathe. “I’m ready to lob some heads in defense of dat ass.” 

“Um,” Peter said and gracefully collapsed in a heap by Deadpool’s feet. He’d curse his legs, and his luck, but his head was swimming and his mask was sweaty and sticking to his face and it was getting hard to breathe again– 

“Hey, baby boy, whoa, someone did a number on you,” Deadpool tutted, landing beside Peter with a grace his body didn’t show. But Deadpool didn’t reach out to touch him, not yet, just crouched beside him and shielded him from the sprawling city waking up around them. Shit. They needed to go somewhere private before the Daily Bugle gets wind… or photographs.

“Can you get me somewhere private?” Peter asked, not meaning to but definitely leaning his head on Wade’s shoulder. He was blaming it on the exhaustion and he was being selfish, because for all his running away he had missed Wade. They were friends, first and foremost, and after Harry went insane and MJ broke up with him and Gwen…Wade was easily his best friend.

Easy. 

“Yeah,” Wade said, bending down so he could scoop Peter up. It jostled his arm and made his ribs cry, but he just grunted and let himself be held. 

“I’m taking you to mine, that work?” When Peter didn’t answer right away Wade shook him enough to get his attention. 

“Yeah,” Peter sighed, leaning against Wade’s chest. “Yeah.” 

“That green skateboarder back? He get wild again?” Peter shook his head, taking a deep breath and closing his eyes against the rising sun. 

“Vampire,” Peter mumbled. 

Wade stilled and Peter could feel the incredulous gaze on him. 

“Webs,” Wade said, enunciated so slow Peter felt like he was three, “how hard did you hit your head?” 

“I didn’t hit my head,” Peter snapped, irritable because he thought they would be moving and he’d be able to rest soon, not for Wade to stop walking, “look man, there’s a pile of ash right over there.”

He felt Deadpool move his head and for a second there was only the noise of early morning work traffic. 

And then Deadpool almost dropped him. 

“Holy _shit_ , Spidey! You fucking fought _Dracula_ –”

“It wasn’t Dracula–”

“And didn’t call me ASAP? Baby boy you’ve steered me wrong, hot damn! I could’ve been hunting _vampires_ and instead I’m out here making teenagers piss their pants ‘cause they just discovered weed and think that means they can make trouble in my fav taco stand? OMG SPIDEY WE CAN BE VAMPIRE HUNTERS HOLY–STEP ASIDE ZAK BAGGINS, THERE ARE NEW STUDS IN TOWN–”

“Wade! Stop yelling you’re killing my head!” Peter groaned, his wrist aching. 

“–Matching shirts, I’m so excited, hey have you seen Fright Night? Not the 80s one, but the newer one, with David Tennant and he wears leather pants? You could wear the leather and I’ll wear plaid–”

“Wade,” Peter pleaded, and maybe he sounded as pathetic as he felt because Wade shut up instantly. “I just wanna rest.” 

It was kind of amazing how sudden Wade seemed to snap to attention and he moved swiftly and with ease, angling Peter against his chest so that climbing down the fire escape didn’t jostle him, so that walking through alleys and between people didn’t have him bumping into anyone, so that when Peter was passed out in his arms he barely registered the many flights of stairs Wade was climbing until Wade was kicking open his door so hard it cracked and dented the wall. 

Peter jumped at the noise, and Wade’s grip tightened so the younger man couldn’t fall. 

“Easy there, itsy bitsy,” Wade cooed as he gently lowered Peter onto a large ragged couch in the small apartment, “I’m gonna pop your shoulder now, should’ve done that first thing, so feel free to punch me but not too hard, all right? I can’t be your nurse if you’ve broken my neck.” 

Peter blinked. Wade was talking so fast. 

“Wait,” he said, “what?” 

“One, two, NOW!” 

Wade snapped Peter’s shoulder into place with no further qualms. Peter _did_ punch him, on instinct, and he felt bad about it but not too bad because his shoulder and arm were on fire and he collapsed back onto the couch, breathing hard. 

“Sorry,” Peter panted as Wade groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. Peter hoped it wasn’t broken. 

“Don’t you worry ‘bout it, Webs,” Wade said, voice a little nasally. “I was prepared for that.” 

“I didn’t mean to hurt you while you’re helping me,” Peter continued, but Wade shooed his words away with a flick of his wrist and shuffled closer so he was kneeling by Peter again. It made something in Peter hurt, how comfortable Wade was with being in pain. 

“I’m going to set your wrist, but the bones look pretty shattered,” Wade said, talking under his breath as his hands moved over Peter, careful not to press too hard. “Hmm, yeah Yellow, he does. Broken ribs? No, White, that’s not going to do _shit_ …” 

Peter must have fallen asleep to Wade’s talking, because he woke up groggy wrapped in a blanket that smelled like sweat and something metallic, and no Deadpool. 

Peter sat up, his wrist aching but he could move it now. His ribs were tender, and his shoulder was uncomfortable, but at least all the broken bones had seemed to heal themselves during the day. Peter glanced around the apartment to try and see if the sun was still high in the sky or sinking down, but Wade had blacked out his windows with a sloppy paint job that kept out any light from outside. 

“Wade?” Peter called, voice hoarse and he coughed to clear it as he got to his feet. A part of him wanted to look around, familiarize himself with where Wade lived, but another part, a bigger part, the one with the guilt and shame and gratitude, wanted him to leave immediately. It was clear that Wade didn’t want to see him, didn’t want to spend any more prolonged time with him, and how could Peter blame him?

Peter knew Deadpool’s name, his past, his favorite and least favorite foods. He knew that Wade was Canadian but hated maple syrup and that he had a daughter named Ellie. Peter knew Wade, yet he’d never let Wade know him. Wade hasn’t seen his face, doesn’t know his name, doesn’t know anything, really. Wade was open and Peter was closed, so how could Peter really think that Wade still– 

“HONEY I’M HOO~OOME!” Wade crashed through the door and the poor thing rattled, close to falling off its hinges. Peter leapt onto the ceiling on instinct, his heart racing, spider-senses tingling minutely, before his spike of adrenaline mellowed. Strapped across Deadpool’s chest were about a dozen wooden stakes, three bottles of what looked like water labeled with crucifixes, and a mirror hanging over his shoulder. He’d picked up weapons…to help Peter, and Peter…Peter felt like his guilt would swallow him whole. 

Because Wade, Peter realized, never gave up. 

He never gave up on him. 

Deadpool spotted Peter on the ceiling and did a goofy wave, gesturing to the new additions to his arsenal. 

“Like what you see?” Deadpool preened, doing a little dance on the tips of his toes as Peter unstuck himself and dropped silently to the floor. “I’m all suited up, babes, ready to fight some vamps! How’s your wrist? Your shitty healing factor kickin’ in yet?” When Peter didn’t answer, just stared, some of the energy left Wade’s shoulders and he almost seemed to hunch in on himself. An outsider wouldn’t notice, Wade was the master at hiding his feelings, his pitfalls, but Peter knew Wade and he could tell his silence was making the merc doubt himself. 

“Or not, I can leave– wait, your right White this _is_ my apartment–”

“I’m sorry,” Peter, blurted, unable to stop himself. 

Wade cocked his head. 

“You what?” he asked. 

“I’m sorry,” Peter repeated, feeling nervous and anxious and so fucking guilty– “I–after we…I just left. That wasn’t fair to you, it wasn’t respectful or nice or, or anything; I was a real asshole and I’m so sorry, Wade.” 

There was a heavy silence where Deadpool didn’t seem to know what to do or say. That kind of broke Peter’s heart all over again: like Wade was used to being used and thrown aside and he had accepted it. Wade, if he respected you, gave you everything. Peter hadn’t been careful or respectful of that. And then when a week had gone by Peter had started looking for Deadpool around the city but heard he’d taken a job for SHIELD further north and that was that. 

“Don’t have to apologize, Webs, you didn’t–”

“I treated you like shit, Wade. I feel awful about it. And I hurt you and I’m sorry. Please just let me say it.” Peter pleaded, taking an aborted step forward before he noticed the tension in Wade’s shoulders and stayed back, waiting. 

“It’s Halloween this week,” Wade said. “Halloween should be a day where we honor monsters, not be mad at each other.”

Peter blinked. 

Then he laughed, because what else was he supposed to do with this relief and warmth spreading through him? 

“Yeah,” he said, rubbing the back of his head, a grin stretching his mask. “So, you got new weapons?” 

“Hellz yeah I did,” Wade gloated making his way over and beginning to dump everything where Peter had been lying on the couch. 

Wade didn’t own tables. 

“Got some holy piss from a Priest–”

“Hopefully you mean water–”

“…Some stakes, the wood stabby kind, made by yours truly, a mirror ‘cause vamps can’t see themselves? We can piss ‘em off with that…” 

“I don’t think pissing off the undead is a good idea–”

“And! And I got some garlic powder, for both taco seasoning and vamp repellent. Maybe we can make it into a spray? Just start spraying ‘em like when a dog pees on the sofa and you wanna train ‘em not to do that so you get that spray bottle ‘cause hitting dogs is fucking abuse, assholes, not a correct punishment, Spidey-boy.”

“Not a boy, I’m twenty-four,” Peter sighed, even though he was smiling and bent down to pick up one of the stakes Wade had chiseled. The guy had even sanded it so Peter wouldn’t get splinters through his spandex. Wade was an idiot, Peter concluded, who was too thoughtful for his own good. 

“You’re twenty-four? Not sixteen? Oh, that’s a relief!” Wade let out a loud exaggerated breath and Peter shot him an incredulous look. 

“Wade, we hooked up,” Peter deadpanned. 

“Yeah, so thank _God_ you’re not a kid! I’d have to impale myself on one of these bad boys for it!” 

“You know how old I am, dude, we talked about it before, um,” Peter couldn’t help the blush that raged like fire across his cheeks and he tried to ignore that he could feel Wade’s stare drilling holes into the side of his head. 

“We fucked?” Wade grinned and Peter shot him a stern glare. That probably couldn’t be seen through the mask but it was still worth it. He could see Wade’s shit-eating smile even through the red leather. And he hated that he remembered how that leather felt against his skin, his hips, his–

“Yeah,” Peter cleared his throat. “We talked about it.” 

“That we did baby boy! Good thing, huh? I mean, it was great don’t get me wrong, you’re really fuckin’ flexible and that ass is more than just eye-candy–”

“Wade! Jesus, will you shut up?” Peter spluttered, embarrassed and trying not to remember details because once he did he’d kind of want to do it again– 

“What? Compliments making you shy on me, honey-bun?” Wade leaned closer and Peter was almost 100% sure that the man was waggling his eyebrows. Peter pressed his hand into Wade’s face to push him away, grinning stupidly when Wade just pushed closer. 

“You’re being ridiculously inappropriate,” Peter muttered, but there was no bite to his words and Wade could tell. 

“I’m just praising your hot bod, Webs, more people should.” 

“I think an appropriate amount of people talk about my body,” Peter retorted. 

“Not in my opinion. There should be a statue of you in Times Square. The butt could light up.” 

Peter laughed, pushing Wade away. 

“Okay, you really need to shut up now,” he said, ridiculously pleased, and Wade raised his hands in a placating gesture before making a show of bending over and checking out Peter’s ass. 

“Whoo-ee!” Wade exclaimed.

“Wade! We’re gonna talk about vampires now, stand up straight.” Wade took a military stance, salute and all, and Peter had a moment where he could see Wade in the Special Forces, before the torture and boxes and hell he had lived through. Peter needed to stop thinking about Wade like that or else he’d start crying and probably never stop again. And he knew Wade hated being pitied, hell, Peter hated it too, so Peter didn’t say anything regarding what he was thinking. 

“Do vampires have a lair?” Peter asked, rubbing his still healing wrist. 

“God I hope so,” Wade sighed, popping his back and scratching his butt absently. “It’d be boring as hell if they didn’t. I would. Like, on the moon.” 

“You’d be a vampire on the moon?” Peter scrunched up his nose. 

“How fuckin’ great would that be?” 

“Wade, you’d die instantly.” 

“Can’t die, Webs, wow, your memory is just as bad as mine!” 

“It’s really not.” 

“By the way are you hungry? ‘Cause there was a Mexican buffet I’ve never tried before across the street from the building you got your lovely ass kicked on–” Peter pressed a finger to Wade’s mouth over the mask and that shut the merc up fast. 

“Wade,” Peter spoke slowly, making sure he was looking Wade in the eyes. Or, where his eyes would be beneath the white circles. “We need to find the vampire that’s targeting civilians. I need your help. We’re gonna help each other, okay?” 

Wade just stared for a moment and Peter pulled his hand back before he began to try and feel the ridges of Wade’s lips with his finger. 

“Great,” Wade said. “I was getting really tired of my right hand.” 

“You–not like that, what is _wrong_ with you?” 

“You want the long or short version?” 

“Just…will you help me out?” 

Wade nodded, animated and excited, his anticipation radiating off of him. 

“A team up! We’re teaming up!” 

Peter rolled his eyes and picked up a stake. 

“Yeah we are,” Peter said, pointing the stake at Wade. “Don’t make me regret it.” 

“Sir yes sir!” Wade exclaimed before tilting his head and regarding Peter with an air of absolute amusement. 

“Wait, do you mean now?” Wade asked. 

“Uh, yeah?” 

“Oh, my naïve little spider child–”

“Twenty-four, man, c’mon…” 

“You’re not going anywhere until that wrist is healed and you let me feed you,” Deadpool hummed, crossing his arms over his broad chest. Peter wasn’t staring at his biceps. Or his pecs. Or him… _dammit_. 

Peter mirrored the merc’s stance, and Deadpool cocked his hip in response. 

“We need to find them before they kill more people, Wade.” Deadpool tapped a finger to his chin, contemplating. 

“Hmm, I’ll make ya a compromise,” the bigger man hummed and Peter wished, for once, that Wade could see how utterly unimpressed he looked. 

“What kind of compromise?” Peter asked. 

“You eat,” Deadpool pointing a black finger at Peter’s nose, “and while you do I’ll do some research/tracking. No time wasted and you won’t pass out like a lady in ninetieth century London whose corset is too tight, deal?” Deadpool held out his hand for Peter to shake and the younger man did. 

“Fine,” Peter agreed, “I’ll go home, shower, and email all my professors on why I haven’t been to class–”

“You’re still in high school?” Wade interrupted. 

“I’m twenty-four and getting my major in biochemistry, we’ve talked about this!” Peter exclaimed not letting his exasperation show. Or, he tried. He knew Wade had trouble with his memory, especially after regenerating his brain, but sometimes Peter thought Wade was just messing with him. 

“Hm right, yeah, continue,” Wade, agreed. 

“And after I send my emails and get clean then you can buy me dinner and we’ll discuss our next steps. I hate to admit this but you have more experience at tracking people than me.” Wade nodded solemnly. 

“Yes, I do,” he said. He gripped Peter’s hand a little too tight. 

“Go get soaped up, baby boy!” Wade called over his shoulder as he sauntered down the short hallway from the kitchen, “I’m gonna get ready for our date!” 

“It’s not a date!” Peter called back on impulse, not knowing what to do with his now empty hand, so he let it drop limp to his side. His wrist felt better. 

“We’re getting cleaned up to go have dinner and read some vampire fan-fiction, how is it not a date?” Wade’s voice boomed down his dark hallway and Peter didn’t answer, just crossed Wade’s living room to open his window and climb out. 

“I have a door!” Wade yelled after him. 

Peter couldn’t help it: he smiled all the way home. 

 

_________________________________________________

 

Peter was right, the shower helped.

He felt more awake, refreshed, and ready to take on the night. He accidentally fell asleep on his bed trying to do some quick research of his own, and woke up to a dark city and darker bedroom. 

“Okay,” he groaned, ignoring the soreness in his muscles as he rolled out of bed and onto his feet. “Time to hunt some vampires.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys! thanks to everyone who read and commented and kudo'd, it's very much appreciated!! :)


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